


how come every time you come around

by rayguntomyhead



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Crack, Dirty Talk, M/M, Rival Sex, Shameless Smut, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22608199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayguntomyhead/pseuds/rayguntomyhead
Summary: This was all Ironhide and Motormaster’s fault. They were the ones with the too-short tempers and the filthy mouths and ridiculously large databank of human popular media.
Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime
Comments: 13
Kudos: 245
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	how come every time you come around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cher/gifts).



> Shameless smut with a skeleton of a plot, and also my first time writing sticky - happy Valentine's, cher! Hope you enjoy :)

Megatron crushes Optimus into the gritty, hard-packed earth beneath him, pinned tight enough Optimus can barely squirm. Their vents hiss billows of hot steam, fogging the air between them until Optimus’ processor spins dizzy and overheating warnings blare angry red in his HUD.

Optimus glares up at Megatron from beneath his battlemask. Well. That was an embarrassingly short tussle.

This situation is all Ironhide and Motormaster’s fault. _They_ were the ones who had started this sequence of events with their too-short tempers and filthy vocalizers and new penchant for downloading half the human databank of popular media.

And, perhaps, partially his fault for sneaking out under Red Alert’s overactive sensors for a solo drive in the middle of the mountains, away from the constant clamor and questions and endless lecturing about his new insult-volleying strategy _yes thank you Prowl_.

Except Megatron had never ambushed him like this before. Optimus still doesn’t know how he’d even realized he was out here and pinpointed his location so quickly in the first place - much less made the decision to spring a surprise solo attack. Any outrageous suggestions his background processing might be coming up with as to Megatron’s motivations are patently ridiculous and not to be listened to.

Above him Megatron lowers his helm barely a vent from Optimus’ face, optics burning ruby-dark in seductively menacing promise.

“What, nothing to say Prime? That is quite a change from your recent mode of operation,” Megatron says, the vibration of his vocalizer teasing at Optimus’ sensors. “What happened to… let’s see what was it you said the other cycle? Something about how I could go frag a cactus tree? Or was it the taunt about me smelling of olderberries?”

Optimus resolutely attempts to dampen his sensory input.

“It’s elderberries, actually,” he says. “But I suppose that was too much for the computing ability of processor _your_ age.”

Which might be the tiniest bit hypocritical considering Megatron’s spark date isn’t _that_ much earlier than his. But Megatron doesn’t even seem to care, just snorts with a sound like a backfiring engine, and grinds Optimus’ wrists pointedly into the gravel

“And _your_ processor is generating countermoves like a squeaky-geared newspark just dropped onto a battlefield. Don’t tell me you’ve developed a death wish,” Megatron rumbles, dark and rough. He lets up his grip just enough his digits can rub almost tenderly at the delicate seams of Optimus’ wrists, completely ignoring Optimus’ unfortunately futile efforts to get them unpinned from above his helm.

“Oh please, if I wanted to kill myself, I’d climb up your ego and jump,” Optimus snaps, vocalizer running on autopilot as he diverts most of his processor power to shutting down every suggestive sensory image it shoves at him in rapid succession of what it would feel like if he just- transformed his mask away. Let Megatron lean in closer, and closer, charge sparking between their lips, and-

No. That is definitely a _terrible_ idea and he should _definitely not_ do that, no matter how seductively Megatron’s field caresses his, syrupy warm waves coaxing his closer.

Megatron chuckles, low and rough.

“That would be a pity,” he says, “now that I’ve finally got you where I want you, where you’ve been begging me to put you with every taunt out of that clever mouth of yours. Is this what you wanted, Optimus? Wanted me to pin you down, just like this, give that glossa of yours something better to do?”

Oh _Primus._ Heat flushes in a burning wave down Optimus’ frame, lips parting to suck in cool air as his vents scream. 

This whole ridiculous situation is definitely, absolutely, and mostly all _Ironhide’s fault._ No matter what kind of... complicated history he and Megatron had. Of course the Stunticons were anything but innocent but, well, it was understandable the Stunticons, being the young earth-created mecha they were, had gotten bored of all the sparse, jealously hoarded remnants of Cybertronian media and had started ‘swimming the web,’ as the humans say. It’s not like any of the other Decepticons seemed to care what the Stunticons got up to in their free time as long as they weren’t starting trouble.

Ironhide though… Optimus hadn’t at all seen that one coming. Ironhide could generously be referred to as ‘stubborn as a pig in the mud’ – another delightful human expression referring to a stout, angry, and extremely contrary Earth mammal – but he hadn’t been one of the Autobots to take to the local culture, unlike Jazz with his music or the Protectobots with their ‘As The World Turns’ show.

But it turns out even Ironhide could surprise him because it was definitely positively Ironhide who decided in the middle of the latest Autobot-Decepticon scuffle over some backwater energon deposit to yell at the disorganized mass of angry Stunticons, “Can’t find your blasters, huh? Maybe try looking up your aftholes _oh wait-_

Which was… more or less a fairly standard Cybertronian goad minus the baffling reference to a non-existent frame part, and overall a fairly standard Cybertronian warbuild sort of thing to do.

What wasn’t fairly standard Cybertronian is what Motormaster decided to jeer back at him.

“Get fucked, grandpa,” Motormaster said, punctuating this bewildering bit of what was probably an insult? By sticking his glossa out between two of his digits. And while Ironhide froze trying to process that, blithely moved right along to shooting him in the leg.

That might have been the end of that, except that it was easier to get Durilliyan gnawers to release their bite than to get Ironhide to let go of a challenge, so the _next_ clash he managed to maneuver himself into the same corner of the fight as the Stunticons within about thirty astroseconds. And _then_ he fired off a few volleys, just to get their attention, and with a look of immense self-satisfaction bellowed, “Come ‘n get me, ya snot-nasal ninny-hammering dickafts!”

To be fair, the look on their faces _had_ been hilarious. Ironhide was able to enjoy it for a whole three kliks before Wildrider recovered enough to holler back “You wish, fuckface!” and that was enough to get the whole pack of them hollering in a chaotic jumble of imprecations upon Ironhide and what he might have gotten up to with Roombas. Megatron had started bellowing somewhere in the background, trying to get them to form Menasor, except they were so preoccupied with their one-up insult melee that they didn’t have a spare byte left to pay attention to him.

Optimus wasn’t really sure on the ethics of all this, grand Cybretronian warfighter history notwithstanding, but it’s not like he was great at reigning Ironhide in the best of circumstances. And since the whole kerfuffle had led to Megatron resentfully calling a retreat before the Autobots had a chance to accumulate anything more than scuffs and dings, Optimus felt he let it go. Just this once.

Except it wasn’t just this once. Everyone at that battle had watched Ironhide’s triumph and had decided that _they_ wanted in on the latest and greatest entertainment.

There wasn’t, unfortunately, a lot of available hobbies on the Ark.

That still wasn’t an excuse for Optimus giving in and joining in. But there was something thrilling about the furious contortion of Megatron’s faceplates when Optimus called him an overblown exhaust cloud with delusions of grandeur, or the way he bristled and flung himself in Optimus’ direction when Optimus threw a, “you have your entire life to be a slagslinger, why not take today off,” his way. The way it threw fuel on the fire of that- thing, between them, that unspoken thing that still smoldered between them, after all these years.

Which… is probably a large part of how he’d ended up here, Megaton’s weight heavy and hot on his chassis, hips nudging up in the space between Optimus’ legs. If there was one person even worse than Ironhide at backing down from a challenge, it was _definitely_ Megatron.

“Look here, Megatron-“ Optimus says in a tone that is definitely not a whine, but before he can get out anything else Megatron somehow finds the manual catch to his battlemask and with a _snick_ it folds away before Optimus can activate the override.

“Mm, yes, say my name, just like that,” Megatron says, rubbing his nasal ridge against Optimus’, lips a horribly teasing micrometer away. “You don’t what? Want me over you, giving you what you’ve been begging for every time you taunt me?”

 _"_ Ex _cuse me,_ that is _certainly not-_ " Optimus stiffens, because whatever he's been doing he _absolutely hasn't_ been begging for-

“You did tell me to go frag myself, in many creative ways,” Megatron says, and smirks. “But I think I rather frag _you,_ ” and his mouth is on Optimus’ and Megatron is kissing him. Megatron is _kissing_ him, head tilting so he can press deeper, take Optimus’ mouth like it’s his right, like Optimus’ pleasure is his to give. He kisses like he fights – all arrogant assurance and a smooth grace that belies his size, one of those massive hands letting go of Optimus’ wrists to tilt his head to he can press even closer.

Optimus shutters his optics, motor controls falling almost entirely offline and he goes limp in Megatron’s grip. It’s been so long, and he shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t want this with _Megatron,_ this is a terrible idea that is going to end badly, he shouldn’t-

“That’s it, Prime,” Megatron croons against his mouth, “Let me have you.”

His hand drags down Optimus' chassis, talons scraping sharp lines of pain-pleasure down his plating, lower and lower until he can slide his hand between their hips and cup Optimus’ panels. He rubs, lazy and insistent and Optimus _isn’t_ just going to open for him, just like that. His valve contracts beneath his panel, lubrication routine bypassing his central motivator entirely. 

Megatron keeps up the maddening tease as his mouth drags down the line of Optimus’ jaw, nipping at the crook of it before dragging his fangs down the lines of his neck cabling. Just a little more pressure, one sharp denta in the wrong place…

Optimus fuel pump judders and he moans, tilts his neck back even further, even as manages to say weakly, "Megatron, this isn't, we shouldn't-"

Megatron ignore that entirely, in favor of teasing at the over-sensitive seams of his panel.

“Perfect,” he says roughly,“how you make me want you.”

And apparently Optimus is, is fact, going to open up for him just like that and his traitorous panel folds away so fast he can hear the _snick_. Before Optimus can even begin to find the override to close it again, Megatron has two digits rubbing through the sensitive slick of his valve, circling his entrance, spreading him open.

“Meg-Mega-“ Optimus chokes out, spinal strut arching and straining against Megatron’s weight but those relentless digits never stop and frag frag frag it’s so _good_ , it’s been so long. Through the buzzing in his audials he can hear a _snick_ , and a hot hard length settles against the joint of his hip.

“I meant to make you beg for it, Prime,” Megatron says, “take you to the edge over and over until that smart mouth of yours couldn’t form anything but the sounds of my name.”

That arrogant, overconfident Pitfragger. Optimus tenses up, unshutters his optics and opens his vocalizer to say… something, except that’s when Megatron grins down with the Unmaker’s spark in his optic and just. Fucks his digit deep into Optimus, crooking it to rub deep at the sensitive cluster on the anterior wall of his valve and Optimus abruptly loses every thought in his processor.

“What was that? You were about to say something,” Megatron croons, just to rub it in but there’s nothing in Optimus that cares about anything except more, and he keens, tilts his hips into Megatron’s touch. And in spite of all the talk about making Optimus beg for it that’s all it takes for Megatron to snarl, low and possessive in his audial and shove Optimus hips wide enough to make the servos creak, get his spike between Optimus’ legs and Optimus can't _think._

“Please,” he says, arching harder into the contact, squirming, trying to get Megatron inside him, suddenly, achingly, empty. “Don’t stop, Megatron-“

And Megatron doesn’t, he scoops an arm in the crook of Optimus’ leg and holds him open for him, open for his spike to slide in and _frag_ it’s so good. Every sensory node in Optimus valve lights up as he’s filled, Megatron over him, inside him, still murmuring filth in his audials.

Optimus rocks his hips, trying clumsily to move with him but every surge of Megatron inside him sends pleasure rushing dizzily through his processor. Time stretches liquid and sweet around them, the pulse of Megatron’s body against his, the slow spiraling build of charge between them. Optimus hangs there, shuddering, and then Megatron gets a hand between them, rubs at Optimus’ anterior node and that's it, he's been charged up and needing this _so long_ and--

When Optimus reboots, Megatron is half-propped over him, staring down at him with something that looks almost tender. One hand is cupped around the curve of his hip, the other gently stroking one of his finials, toying with the sensitive edge. That aft, of course he'd found one of Optimus' weak spots just that easily. He manage to make a sound that comes out suspiciously like a whine and nothing like a protest, leans his helm into the heat of Megatron’s touch, but as soon as his optics spiral into focus Megatron arranges his faceplates into something more like a smirk.

“Again, Optimus?” Megatron says. The effect is slightly undercut but the over-charged flash of his optics, the way his hips still grind into Optimus in spastic little judders, like he can’t bring himself to stop. “Perhaps more of our disagreements _should_ be worked out in a more… private setting.”

And it’s a ridiculous excuse, they both _know_ it’s a ridiculous excuse and Optimus definitely needs to have an actual talk about how fragging the _leader of the opposition_ is a _terrible idea_ … but later. Later they can have that conversation because right now Megatron is nipping at the sensitive flare of his audial, hand groping at the mess between Optimus’ legs. Optimus nods blindly, pushes into Megatron’s touch.

 _Definitely_ later.


End file.
